


Blonde Hair, Strong Build, Blue Eyes

by stellaisnotamermaid



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst, Depression, Gen, Introspection, Poetic, Technically Heavy Angst, a tiny bit of linguistics, and probably, apparently my friend, because I couldn't help myself, but more of, her words not mine, if u saw the typo in the last tag no u didn't, ig lol, jess missed her bus because this was so good, merthur if you squint, technically a vent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-26
Updated: 2020-11-26
Packaged: 2021-03-10 07:47:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27719756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stellaisnotamermaid/pseuds/stellaisnotamermaid
Summary: It's only a century later that Merlin forgets Arthur's faceOR: It's rather difficult to live 1400 years without those you were closest to, but it's somewhat easier considering the fallibility of human memory.
Relationships: Merlin & Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 15
Kudos: 46





	Blonde Hair, Strong Build, Blue Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> I felt down so. woo. angst. which I never really write. but I was thinking about how _wow_ my memory is bad, and if I were in Merlin's shoes, I would _not _be able to remember _anything_ ever. so sort of a vent? but for merlin.__

It’s only a century later that Merlin forgets Arthur’s face.

He remembers his general appearance—blonde hair, strong build, blue eyes—but the details escape him. His memory of him is more similar to loose color laid down on a canvas than a portrait.

(On his worst days, he’s wracked with guilt over this—not only did he fail to save his life, but he failed to honor it, remembering only the abstract details of his personality, the way he called Merlin’s name, the huff of his laugh.)

Memory fades in a specific order—auditory information goes first, so it’s a miracle that Merlin remembers Arthur’s laugh. Oftentimes, sounds are processed by their meaning rather than their specifics. With the memories too painful to think of at the beginning, without their recital, Arthur’s voice and words slip from his mind.

(The subtle shift of what will be called Old Brythonic in the future into Western Brythonic not long after Arthur’s death doesn’t help, either. As his tongue adapts to the ever-changing world, his memory shifts, and words and their meanings blur.)

Next goes visual memory. It’s easy enough to remember the separate colors when they’re drilled into one’s head every day, but the details are difficult to retain when they’re combined with the sensory input given in a single second. In a species that relies so heavily on visual information, it’s stunning that iconic memory vanishes so quickly. Details are thrown away as unimportant, lost forever in hidden neurons that are impossible to access.

(When one lives as long as Merlin, or anywhere close to it, they see countless faces—even if they only meet a new person every month, that’s over a thousand different people, a thousand different faces to combine in an effort to remember one specific face. A painter might be able to remember the face of someone they’ve drawn for a month, a year, half a decade, but even their memory fades eventually unless it’s reinforced. Those who simply  _ look  _ and do not  _ study _ , do not  _ build from scratch _ are incapable of this unless they have a perfect visual memory.)

Touch vanishes next. The rougher hits, Arthur not knowing his own strength when it comes to his manservant, but also the softer ones, when they narrowly escape dying. The softer hits, when Arthur was too frail to hold him tighter, when he was taking his final breaths, side gaping open from a wound indirectly caused by  _ Merlin,  _ who had sworn to protect him, who was  _ destined _ to save him.

(Sometimes, when it gets too loud purely because it’s too quiet, he desperately searches for some semblance of recall. Searches for the bruises from training, searching for the crushing hug he’d never been able to remember in the first place, only learning about it second-hand. Searches for the soft whispers of incredulous laughter brushing across his skin, Arthur a step too close.)

Taste leaves second to last, tied too closely to scent to leave before it. The  _ umami _ and saltiness of stolen food, the sweetness of the grapes and other fruits.

(The sour, bitter taste of the bile crawling up his throat on nights where he can’t take the lying, would rather taste the iron of his own blood than the acid of guilt.)

Scent disappears last. On occasion, Merlin will catch something in the air that speaks indescribably of  _ home, _ of a place he can no longer return to. The heavy moisture of the castle weighing down the scents from the kitchen, the soap from those washing clothes, the sweat from knights and guards crossing through passageways. Different flowers and herbs from fields turned to foul-smelling, gag-inducing potions in Gaius’ chambers. Autumn harvests, imported foods rarely seen by those outside of the castle, different varieties that are no longer quite the same, evolving or facing extinction as the world around them adapts.

(The scent of  _ Arthur,  _ buried in the past, impossible to recall other than a vague impression of sweat and mud from fighting tinged with the metal of blood and armor. The scent of the man he had called his best friend, yet failed the one time it truly mattered. The scent of the other side of the coin, covered in the cloying scent of death, washed away by the lake and his tears.)

It’s only a century later that Merlin forgets, but he’s still pulled along for over a millennium.

(If he ran into Arthur on the street, it’s likely he wouldn’t recognize him—no matter his emotions, his logical subconscious erased the memories, buried them out of reach under centuries upon centuries of new information being absorbed that was deemed more important. A period actor, he would assume. A man with a similar build, similar hair, and similar eyes. A man whose intonation feels familiar, who speaks in a tongue Merlin had long-forgotten. A man who’s picture-perfect, who holds himself as though he’s better than those around him, yet would kneel down to grant mercy to one who betrayed him. A man who is almost soft in the way he is rough, who grips with just enough strength that it’s impossible to miss his presence, yet does no harm. A man who is overwhelmed by the sweetness of modern foods, drowning in the spices. A man who smells of sweat, blood, and freshwater. A man who seems terribly familiar, yet cannot be the same man, for Avalon no longer exists—it’s been written over by civilization after civilization, city after city, home after home—and, as such, can no longer have an hour of greatest need.)

(That was what Merlin remembered the most—that Arthur was the Once and Future King, yet would never return, for Avalon had no future.)

(What he didn’t realize, of course, was that Avalon lived on in him. So long as he breathed, Avalon would live on. As soon as he remembered, Arthur would survive yet again.)

**Author's Note:**

> also for everybody who's seeing this because they subscribed for my ongoing merlin+ hp crossover, i actually wrote some today!! not a lot, but i have the basis for the next-next chapter (and plans to post the next chapter on sunday bc i meant to last sunday and forgot oops)
> 
> anyway!! i hope u enjoyed!! and if u didnt bc for some reason it made u cry then. sorry. if it's not that emotional and you're like 'whys that even there?' it's bc i'm currently emotionally exhausted :D so nothing is real including my emotions.
> 
> ALSO if it's after 12am, then PLEASE sleep. especially if you relate to this fic in _any way_ bc,, memory issues and depression are results of lack of sleep just as much as insomnia is a result of depression
> 
> ilya, stay safe!!


End file.
